What Fact, Heavenly Mansion?
by mailroomy
Summary: Smecker doesn't know whether to praise the day he got sent to Boston or curse it with all his might. warnings for: sweary words, twin-smarm, possible-AU. written for the Yuletide 2009 Story Exchange, as a gift for drakonlily
1. Prelude

Prelude: A Narrative of Prepare for [Something or Other]

Ever since he was young -- if he ever were -- there's one thing Smecker always remembers. His grandmother used to say: be prepared, be fucking prepared; and that's what he's always done. You can't be Smecker and survive the system without being prepared. So he's always been prepared, especially in occasions when a person is The Shit one minute, and be in shit the next minute. The more spiritually- and/or politically- correct will call it "the wheel of life". Smecker prefers to call it... Well, he hasn't got the right name for it yet.

Though not for the lack of trying. "They just won't give me enough time," he'll say, if you ask him.

But name or no name, it's no less true. Like now.

One minute he's on the fast track you can barely see him, the next minute it's 'hold on, not so fast'.

---

"What do you mean 'taken off the case'?" he asks. It's not even seven in the morning, and his life's already taken a turn for the dumps.

"It means exactly that. You're off the case," his Boss says, in that monotone drawl of his. "This is Mr. Horace Anderson, from the PR Department. He'll explain the logistics to you."

"Good morning, Agent Smecker," Horseface Underpants greets him before launching into the whole song and dance about how this isn't because any fault on Smecker's part. It's merely election year next year, he says. The government needs to put the correct foot out to the public, he says. And apparently, Smecker isn't even considered a foot at the moment. In the eyes of the PR, he's not even a limb.

"But I'm poster boy for your Diversity and Equal Opportunities at the workplace PC bullshit," Smecker says (merely in a self-defensive capacity, you understand). He doesn't sound too whiny at all, either.

"You're not exactly It."

"Not exactly It? Just because I'm one stitching short? Or what?" Smecker really doesn't whine. But right now he really doesn't need a reassignment, either. He doesn't need this one step back in his path. It's all that he's got for himself. _Fuck anyone who's going to fucking mess with that_. He really doesn't swear either. But certain occasions do call for it.

"No. Your emotional profile doesn't exactly match with our grand plan."

"So _now_ you have a grand fucking plan."

"This sort of profanity isn't going to get you brownie points, Agent Smecker."

So, the story of his life.

"Don't worry, we'll take care of you," Boss says, escorting Smecker to his desk, helping him clear out. Smecker discreetly makes sure that Boss will be clearing out his half-chewed bubble gum and the sandwich that is only a stage away from being The New Penicillin. "There's still nobody better at this job than you," the Boss says, calling some junior staff to clear the mess instead.

_Not getting your hands dirty, eh Boss?_ Smecker thinks inwardly. He supposes that's why the Boss is the Boss and Smecker is the one getting downshuffled despite there being 'no one better at this fucking job than you' (_His words, not mine_).

"But you're not exactly what we need right now." Boss is still talking, and Smecker still trying to listen out for his alarm clock to go and wake him up. Or someone to jump out of the bushes and scream April Fucking Fool's. (_I swear I will manfully enjoy April Fool's next time_). "But you'll be back here in no time, before you even notice you're gone."

How can anyone not notice?

The pretty and shiny service car is already waiting. The first class ticket -- one-way ticket, by the way -- in his breast pocket, poking tiny little needles at his heart. The 'eyes only' and 'to read' folders stacked on top of his 'personal belongings' box already screaming their contents at him. Reminders of his new assignment.

Boss goes back inside. The driver -- they can't even find a pretty driver to appease Smecker's raging anger (oh yea, don't think for a second he's not angry, but people at the bottom don't get angry at people currently sitting at the top. You run out for coffee and bagel and snag an extra packet of Sweet n' Low just in case) -- Well, the driver has the audacity to smile at him as he piles everything into the car.

He wishes the sky isn't so cheerful, taking the exact shade of blue that offends him so much.

---


	2. Half Indoors and Outdoors

1. Half Indoors and Outdoors, Painting Targets on Very Large Heads

"Not even a Bulger," Smecker says to his new minder who meets him at the airport, who shakes his hand too enthusiastically it can't be healthy.

"The team's full up," Minder says, as he leads Smecker to another shiny service car. Smecker reads files in the car, although he's almost memorized every commas and semi-colons in them. He doesn't feel like socializing and he thinks his minder knows it, too.

Then it's him being shown to his desk and chair, cupboards, and two windows, in a room in a quiet corner. An office. Smecker knows it's not because he's any great person, but because they'll not want to deal with him too much. There's a stack of files on the table, though he's sure there's nothing new in it, nothing that's not already been written inside the files under his armpit and in his briefcase. But he reaches for them anyway. For show.

"New information," Minder says. "Casualties in an alleyway."

"Dead Russians," Smecker says as he skims through the new-but-definitely-not files "Dead insignificant Russians."

"They're not Bulger," Minder concurs, sighing heavily, looking longingly down the corridor to a door with "Bulger Task Force – Sub Group A" written in black marker on a piece of plain photocopier paper that has seen better days. Smecker senses some mutual commiseration, but he patently refuses to be suckered in. No way. He's still burning his righteous anger cards.

He knows he's being petty. The Yakavettas, the Petrovas. They are, make no mistake, fucking pain in the asses. But when one's been on the Five Families case for as long as one can remember, then, yes, these scums are rather unappealing. New York. Chicago. Even New Orleans and Philadelphia. That's where the "correct foot" people are assigned. Boston? _By god_. And not even on Bulger detail. _Shit_.

Some pretty secretary-type invites herself in, her big grin too bright for such a crappy morning. "Agent Smecker. Cop car already waiting downstairs to take you to... uh... there," she says, entirely too cheerful. "Nice to meet you, by the way," she says again before disappearing back to whichever cubicle she belongs.

He really should remember where everyone sits, especially since it seems like he's going to stay for a while.

"You'll be dividing your time between the precinct and here, I think," Minder says as he escorts Smecker back down. _I really should stop calling him Minder and call him by name, _Smecker thinks, momentarily sobered up under the warm-enough sun. _But whatever, right?_

_---_

The chief of police meets him at the car, apologises for the early morning problem once he's seen Smecker's sour face.

_It's not the early morning that I have a problem with_, Smecker wants to say as he's being led beyond the yellow tape, valiantly trying to make his displeasure known.

But once he's heard Bagel Boy talking bullshit to amused audiences, Smecker finds a new sense of purpose.

He's no longer Organized Crime hotshot for the moment, but no one's going to accuse him of not doing his job to his utmost best. Because, by goodness, it's his life.

That and he's the best in his field.

---


	3. Might Be Mountains

2. Might be mountains, if it weren't Boston

Smecker finds his day brightening up a little as the sun climbs higher up the horizon. The case is turning out to be interesting, Boston precinct isn't all that dull, either (the detectives are quite dim, but the uniforms aren't quite so offensive to the eyes -- especially that boy Norman. Or is it Newton? Might be Newman, but he'll need to read the badge one more time).

It's really not so bad, he'll think later. It's relaxing enough for him to take a load off, but not too dull that he'll be tearing his hair out. A thinking holiday. A working holiday.

Not so bad, and they make good enough coffee and bagels.

---

So, all in all, it's not so bad, really. But things really perk up for him when the skies open, dropping two brothers on his lap. Or rather, the precinct front door opens and in walk Connor and Murphy McManus looking like some triumphant Greek -- well Irish – tragic heroes.

No togas or kilts, just bloodied terry robes. No stage lighting, only buzzing neon lights overhead. No crashing cymbals or drum rolls, no arias nor even a simple chorus, merely the sound of your everyday precinct -- the phones, the computers, the clocks. No dance of angels and there's a sea of faces in front of him, but the brothers took center stage nevertheless; all bedraggled and torn, exhausted and extremely appealing to Smecker's detail-loving senses._This could be interesting_, he tells himself as he greets the boys.

_I hope they like onion bagels_, he thinks, no longer so worried about when he'll be returning back to HQ.

What an interesting holiday this turns out to be.

---


	4. Saints One to Three

3. Saints. And one of two. Three, literally.

_  
_He watches them from afar, lets them congregate with their adoring cop crowd, sharing morning coffee. What he sees though, troubles him.

The brothers transformed from ordinary people in an extraordinary situation into saints overnight.

They've had a good night sleep, Smecker knows. The holding cells here are better than most cells he's seen, despite the leakages. But somehow there are lines on those faces that he didn't see yesterday in the interview room. Others may tell him that they don't see any changes on those carefree faces. But others are not him. They aren't Smecker and they just don't _see_.

He sees it. Though not in the way that loony people think they see visions of the Holy Ghost.

He sees it, but he doesn't know what to think or say or do about it. _Not enough clues, too many guesses_. He's seen the interesting bandages they sport. He's also seen that loft room bereft of one flush toilet (was the cistern still there? odd that he doesn't quite remember). He's seen the fatigue and relief in each set of eyes (that was yesterday, in that interview room, in between marveling at how they spew off beautiful-sounding languages of lands beyond the sea and marveling at how they interacted with each other). He's seen that dangerous glint in their eyes, fleeting, just teasing beneath the surface. The glint of people who've seen their fair share of horrors (they're Irish, aren't they?)

Above all, Smecker has seen enough faces to know how people can change once they've tasted fear -- and not some pedestrian kind of fear -- but that very palpable fear of losing someone you care about. These boys, too.

And those are what he's seen, this bright Boston morning. That hunger and coldness that weren't there twenty four hours prior. Smecker doesn't think even the boys themselves understand what changes await them. Smecker can barely divine it himself.

There's a word for it, Smecker thinks, but it eludes him. He's almost tempted to reach for the dictionary and start from A. But he's got a lot of post-mess clean up to be getting on with.

A uniform dragging a drug addict behind him passes Smecker who was on his way to the coffee machine and greets him good morning. The druggie grunts and yells garbage at him, mostly in a language he doesn't recognize in its ugliness. He stands alone in the corridor, thinks about the word 'addiction'; shakes his head; walks away.

Oh, addiction is really not a word for it, Smecker reminds himself. These two at least, are beyond something so banal as addiction; the small push they got doesn't quite make them tumble down a cliff. Smecker imagines something a little bit more primal in it, something inherited and passed down through generations since time immemorial.

---

(only later, much, _much_ later, that Smecker realizes how right he is; though he's not entirely too proud to know how right he always, well mostly, is).

---

The boys steps out some time later, and Smecker gives a moment of thought to what they'll do next. Maybe they'll go back to that meatpacker place. Maybe be the local church's mascot of the year.

The sun climbs higher into the sky, soon it's noon and his shadows slips and hides underneath his always shiny shoes. The boys already filed to the back of his mind.

---

Smecker finds himself in a series of storms soon enough.

Storms in miniature for now, but possibly not for long. What's supposed to be a holiday taken by some "not-even-a-foot agent" turns out to be something more than that, as he starts burning the phone lines between Boston and HQ. This isn't what he expected when he first arrived in quiet town Boston.

"It was supposed to be a simple fact-finding assignment," Boss says as the phone lines open. No hello, no good morning, no how-do-you-friggin'-do.

"Well, I didn't go out shooting people, if that's what you mean," Smecker puts some effort into sounding affronted. "I'm bored and feeling a huge big slighted, but I'm not that stupid."

"So is this a mob war thing or do you have any other theories?"

_Oh so now Big Shot want some theories_, Smecker thinks sullenly. Theories. He's got lots of theories, none of which he's ready to share with the public just yet. Medium-sized mobster bosses from all over the world fighting for a bigger piece of cake. Mix that in with serial killers largely influenced by bad action movies, spaghetti western, and comic book heroes entering stage left. Just the worst example of the blind-leading-the-blind-with-live-ammo.

"It's not like they haven't tried this before," his Boss ponders, loud and (unfortunately) very clear through the phone. "But this time... this time, this could get big, especially with Bulger on the run and the general decay within the Patriarca family," his Boss continues his own brand of thinking-out-loud-on-the-phone. It is also, very unfortunately loud and clear to Smecker that his boss is already thinking for a more suitable, PR-friendly faceperson to take over this case from his hands. "Keep me posted," Boss says, followed by the dial tone.

Smecker leans back in his chair, stares at the door and imagines the people lining up in the corridor outside with their ears to his door and wall. Soon they'll be his Boss's little informants, jostling for his position, and where will he be? But this time, Smecker thinks, this time he isn't going to take the next-year-is-election-year boot lying down.

---

He spends less and less time at the Bureau office. He spends more and more time teaching The Three Stooges to appreciate the finer points of bagel buying, coffee connoisseuring, and perp profiling. Most of the time, though, two out of three ain't half bad.

Sometimes when he sleeps he can see pigeons on the grass and magpies flying in the skies, frolicking between familiar-shaped clouds -- terry cloth cut-out clouds floating on blue black skies.

Morning comes soon enough and dreams disappear like dew on a hot day. Not remembering makes him irritable all day.

But whether he wakes up on the right side of the bed or otherwise, the rain storm keeps falling half a step further along the path. Some days he's got the feeling that he won't like the look of it when he's finally caught that storm.

---

So in the end, the mob war theory was shot to hell even before it can properly take shape.

As the number of dead bad guys from all corners in Boston keeps rising (any quicker and he'll need a scientific calculator to keep up, no kidding), his Boss's interest seems to wane a little. Mob wars meant high profile cases. Vigilante-style killings though? Not so much. At least not this year.

Keep it dialed down, keep it controlled, was the Boss's unofficial line. And it's up to Smecker to keep it that way and keep the public safe.

"A double-edged sword if I've ever friggin' seen one," Smecker tells his coffee cup. He wishes for a stronger cup, something with a suitable alcohol-to-coffee ratio. If it turns out well, he might just get upshuffled again, if it turns to shit then it's the only reason that Horseface PR person would ever need to put him out of commission for good.

Alcohol would be good right about now, he thinks.

Not on duty, his conscience tells him.

Fuck it, he tells his conscience and goes straight for the bottle.

---

Possibly the only good thing is the fact that the bottle's almost empty.

Turns out he is in need of all his faculties in the following days. The Quiet Man has finally died a gruesome death by golfball it seems. And he's not alone, won't have a quiet time sitting waiting for Saint Peter to call him up to the gate, that's for sure. The waiting room's would be quite full up by now.

---

By the end of the week Smecker wishes he didn't have that tantrum rage in that friggin' front lawn.

---

There are certain black days when Smecker finds himself waiting for a wake up call; waiting for someone to shake him awake to find that he's never picked up that finger, the twins never happened, and that he's back in HQ.

Then, for the first time in his long illustrious life, he's finally got himself pissed blind drunk in the middle of the day, in a friggin' church. _Where's the propriety in that?_ Horseface would have a field day if there were witnesses to his disorderly conduct.

But above all, he's really not prepared for this kind of soul searching, deep questioning his morals and ethics. He's too old for this shit.

But in the end, the choice is taken out of his hands.

---

So.

Which Saint was it who predicted the last judgment?

He never really paid any attention in Religious Studies and well now he wonders whether he really should.

He opens the door and watches a parody of a procession of saints. Down the hall and into a court in session goes Big Brother Saint, accompanied by Small Brother Saint and Papa Saint. So cock-sure, doing the things Smecker could only wish (and he'd never wishes upon a star or upon any bright light; there are wishes only meant for the darkest nights, that dead night somewhere between the dead moon and inevitable rebirth; not his, never this).

He'll later sit in front a parade of witnesses, each telling their version of (in their own words) the saints' long speech. Each of them will end up reciting the saints' prayers in a halting half-whisper, already forgetting. Most of them will wake up tomorrow morning with a surreal haze around their heads. The news will be reminding them of it a good part of the month, but they'll be old news soon enough.

But for now, each of those witnesses is spinning the story yarn; each telling a slightly different story, variations to the tune Smecker's only starting to get acquainted with.

And at night, when the crowd of sobbing, laughing, cursing, blabbering witnesses has finally thinned down to nothing, he'll slump down in his chair and stare at the ceiling. Small Saint calls him the Unofficial Saint; kind of like d'Artagnan. Big Saint calls him an annexation to the original family trade ("He's a good man, Da.") Papa Saint looks at him as if he's some sort of breakfast entree.

---

He still remembers that day, the day when those two boys limped into his life, through the double doors of the precinct. Up until then, his life was black and white, and the only shades of grey were found in the suits his Boss wears (all twenty-five shades of them).

The law is his line, still. The red tape his friend-enemy, still. His helplessness is a certain thing he faces every day, all written in stone, struck anew every time he watches some scum boss walks smugly free. But he fights for another day, with the occasional shuffle up down and sideways. _That_ has always been his life. Certain uncertainty. (how oxymoronic is that? he asks his empty paper plate).

So, what's true now? And what about his life?

---

He sits in his chair and chain smokes all three packets that Greenly left. And in the morning, his throat screams murder at him.

---


	5. Postlude

Postlude: Reassembled. Reenacting [the Whys and Wherefores]

He doesn't remember it now, the exact date when he left HQ for Boston. Seems like a long time ago. Of course he only needs to look at his desk calendar and all will return to him as clear as summer's morning. But why court it? There must be a reason why he's forgotten it. He never forgets important things.

Life's changed since then, of that he's sure.

Now. He has news to share, and he's invited the brothers for a drink. Papa Saint still irks him at times, needs some time getting used to sitting in close quarters with the old dog. So he cancels his appointment with Albert (or maybe it was Andy). He orders pizza next, then Chinese, then for more beer, then French.

---

"So, yer movin' out'a here?" Murphy slurs, devouring the last of his ale-dipped baguette. Smecker thinks what a weird bunch of people the Irish people are. Mostly good, entirely weird.

"Transferred," he answers flippantly. It's been a while, but he's finally got the green light back to HQ. But most importantly a payrise, a new boss, and well away from anything to do with the twins and their Da. He's had enough excitement for now (maybe in a few years time, if they're still up to it).

"So, this replacement of yours any good?" Connor asks. A swig, then a drop of beer hanging on the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah. He'll turn enough of a blind eye, if that's what you mean." He doesn't mean it to come out that scratchy.

"But can he take a good joke?" Murphy asks, leaning forward to grab a cigarette, forearm brushing against the side of his brother's cheek. But it seems neither brother realises.

"Not _your_ kind," Smecker retorts hastily. "Don't think he's as tolerable as me with your shit. Don't know how long he's going to be able to work with you." One wrong twist of fate and they, three Saints of the Bleeding Boondocks, are going to find themselves high and fucking dry (which isn't a good thing, take his word for it). "So keep it clean. Take care of yourself."

"We always take care of each other," Connor says, sharper than is probably intended. "Always have." They exchange glances, having whole twin-powered conversations in silence.

Smecker tries to suppress a hint of jealousy. He has never known anything like this before, he wishes he never has. Inviting them seems like a mistake now.

"You're always this close?"

The silent conversation stops abruptly.

"Aye," Murphy says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. The ash from his cigarette dropped alarmingly close to his brother's hand, earning him a light smack on the knee. "Spose it's what you get spending nine months in gestation together."

"Can't seem to get 'im ta fuck off," Connor says and after a brief contemplative pause adds, "Wouldn't want to."

There it is again, that silent bantering. Smecker feels like a fifth wheel and decides to mess with them a little. He'll blame it on booze later on.

"Are you sure it's not more than just sibling love between you two?"

Their surprise is both glorious to behold and funny besides. Smecker decides that he should learn more of their buttons to push. It amuses him to no end, makes him rather sorry of leaving all of a sudden.

"Oh, don't look so surprised. I'm surprised you never thought about it before," he scoffs as the brothers sputters and squirms. A beer bottle spills its content quietly on the carpet, a cigarette burns a hole before dying a quiet death. Small wonder they don't all go out in flames.

"Are you out a yer fuckin' mind, man?" Murphy exclaims eyes blazing. Connor looks all affronted and confused at the same time.

"You re already shot straight to hell, anyway, with all the killings you did," Smecker says, unconsciously scooting away from the two of them. "What's another sin?"

---

He wakes up with what feels like an ice pick in his skull and a faint recollection of last night. He thinks about hells and hells breaking loose and how last night is possibly a good descriptor. Tempest in a teacup, or some such things like that. He thinks that it's supposed to be some lesson he should learn. Don't bait sleeping dragons or some such thing. But does he care? He finds that he doesn't.

There's a knock on his front door. Must be his minder from the Bureau office ready to whisk him back to HQ.

He stays on his back for a while longer, waits for the room to stop spinning. He's almost sorry he has to leave. The three saints are leaving too, by the way, laying low for a while.

Another knock and he throws away the cover. He takes his time getting ready. They can damn well wait.

He looks out of the window and the sun rises languidly up from between the row of shops across the street, a kaleidoscope of color that reminds him of that expensive Tiffany lamp on his old Boss's desk. He wonders whether it's still there.

Another knock and it's time to leave.

He trips on an empty bottle and barely manages to catch himself in time.

He meets his minder just beyond the door, answers a good morning with a nod, makes it his business not to answer questions like "why does your apartment look like an airplane crash site?" or giving any responses to smart-ass comments like "my god, you look like the shittiest kind of shit".

They step out onto the pavement, pausing to watch he world turn brilliant white before fumbling into the slightly smaller company car (at least he thinks it's smaller compared to the one he took when he first arrived. But it might just be because he's gotten fatter).

He wonders if Three Saints Plus One will ever ride again. _So much for avoiding cowboy clichés_, he laughs at himself as he leaves Boston behind him.

---

(end)


	6. notes

**Notes**

The timeline to this starts prior to the 1999 movie and the postlude may well turn into an AU pre-Boondock Saints II. But it is mostly an 'alternate / revisionist history' retelling from Smecker's point of view.

Titles, chapter titles, and some of the lines are also inspired by "Four Saints in Three Acts", an Opera by Virgil Thomson with libretto by Gertrude Stein. This fic also contains allusion to Whitey Bulger and his White Hill Gang, as well as other mob-lore in general. I've taken the liberty to play with the timeline a bit, so it's really not historically or fact-ily accurate at all.

Postlude contains parts rewritten from a previous fic, "Hospitality".

It has been rushed beta-ed by my very patient friend, merry, who works diligently in the short window of time given to her. All other mistakes, shortcomings, oddities and other misgivings remain mine.

The request specifies the detail of Smecker being his introspective bitchy self.

I hope to expand this at a later date, especially since it does look like a bit of a rush job with very harsh corners at the moment. But, in the meantime, I hope this suits what you requested, Drakonlily :) I hope it doesn't disappoint too badly. Happy Yuletide! Happy New Year!

---

**More rambly notes**

I've never written from Smecker's point of view this intensively before, but I hope he comes through alright. Then there's the pleasure of rewatching Boondock Saints (unfortunately Saints II didn't quite make it to my country *is sad*). In addition, I found myself also reading up on Irish customs as well as the American mafia culture, though not in too much detail, and mostly off Google. (one day I will sit down and really, really learn about them, and not only in passing). Along the way I also found gem in the quirky and lovable (well, I don't know if it's supposed to be either quirky or lovable, but I thought so anyway) opera by Thomson & Stein. I think I've got so much stuff that I didn't even know where to start (and I don't know whether that's a good thing or a bad thing).

Thank you for making this journey possible, Drakonlily. I hope the end result of it doesn't disappoint you too much. I also rely on your generosity to excuse any mistakes or incorrectness, and would be very grateful for any critiques that you may wing my way. I'd like to make your gift as suitable and as enjoyable for you as I can :)

And all's left for me to say is (and let's see if I got this right): Sin é bhfuil! Go raibh maith agaibh!


End file.
